Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, volume 05 — Selected excerpts
Copyrighted by T. Y.
Crowell and Company.
SIGURD SLEMBE'S RETURN
_The scene is at first empty.
Then_ Sigurd Slembe _enters, climbing over a rock; he comes forward in silence, but powerfully agitated.
_ The Danes forsake me!
The battle is lost!
Thus far--and no farther!
Escape to the mountains to-night!
Exchange my ships for freedom!
There are herds of horses on the mountains: we will climb up there and then fall upon the valleys like a snowstorm.
But when winter comes?
To begin at the beginning: the outlaw's life--never more!
I have made my last effort; had it been successful, men would have wondered at me.
It has failed, and vengeance is loose.
I
cannot gather another force in Norway!
All over?
Thus far and no farther?
No!
The Danes sail, but we will sail with them!
This night, this very night we will raise our yards and follow them to the open sea.
But whither shall we turn our prows?
To Denmark?
We may raise no third force in Denmark.
Start out again as merchant?
No!
Serve in foreign lands?
No!
Crusade?
No!
Hither and no farther!
Sigurd, the end has come!
[_Almost sobbing.
_] Death!
The thought sprang up in my mind as a door swings open, clashing upon its hinges; light, air, receive me!
[_He draws his sword.
_] No; I will fall fighting in the cause I have lived for--my men shall have a leader!
Is there no chance of victory?
no trick?
Can I not get them ashore?
Can I not get them in the toils?
try them in point-blank fight, man to man, all the strength of despair fighting with me?
Ah, could they but hear me, could I but find some high place and speak to them; tell them how clear as the sun is my right, how monstrous the wrongs I have borne, what a crime is theirs in withstanding me!
You murder not me alone, but thousands upon thousands of thoughts for my fatherland's welfare; I have carried nothing out, I have not sown the least grain, or laid one stone upon another to witness that I have lived.
Ah, I have strength for better things than strife; it was the desire to work that drove me homewards; it was impatience that wrought me ill!
Believe me, try me, give me but half what Harald Gille promised me, even less; I ask but very little, if I may still live and strive to accomplish something!
Jesus, my God, it was ever the little that thou didst offer me, and that I ever scorned!
Where am I?
I stand upon my own grave, and hear the great bell ring.
I
tremble as the tower beneath its stroke, for where now are the aims that were mine?
The grave opens its mouth and makes reply.
But life lies behind me like a dried-up stream, and these eighteen years are lost as in a desert.
The sign, the sign that was with me from my birth!
In lofty flight I have followed it hither with all the strength of my soul, and here I am struck by the arrow of death.
I fall, and behold the rocks beneath, upon which I shall be crushed.
Have I, then, seen a-wrong?
Ah, how the winds and currents of my life stood yonder, where it was warm and fruitful, while I toiled up where it grew ever colder, and my ship is now clasped by the drifting icebergs; a moment yet, and it must sink.
Then let it sink, and all will be over.
[_On his knees_.
] But in thy arms, All-Merciful, I shall find peace!
What miracle is this?
For in the hour I prayed the prayer was granted!
Peace, perfect peace!
[_Rises_.
] Then will I go to-morrow to my last battle as to the altar; peace shall at last be mine for all my longings.
[_Holds his head bowed and covered by his hands.
As he, after a time, slowly removes them, he looks around_.
] How this autumn evening brings reconciliation to my soul!
Sun and wave and shore and sea flow all together, as in the thought of God all others; never yet has it seemed so fair to me!
Yet it is not mine to reign over this lovely land.
How greatly I have done it ill!
But how has it all come so to pass?
for in my wanderings I saw thy mountains in every sky, I yearned for home as a child longs for Christmas, yet I came no sooner, and when at last I came--I gave thee wound upon wound.
But thou, in contemplative mood, now gazest upon me, and givest me at parting this fairest autumn night of thine.
I will ascend yonder rock and take a long farewell.
[_Mounts up_.
] And even thus I stood eighteen years ago,--thus looked out upon the sea, blue beneath the rising sun.
The fresh breezes of morning seemed wafted to me from a high future; through the sky's light veil a vision of strange lands was mine; in the glow of the morning sun, wealth and honor shone upon me; and to all this, the white sails of the Crusaders should swiftly bear me.
Farewell, dreams of my youth!
Farewell, my sweet country!
Ah, to what sorrow thou hast brought me forth!
But now it will soon be over.
[_He descends_.
] If these ships should sail up to me this very night bearing the fulfillment of all my dreams!
Could any one of them be now in truth mine,--or may a tree bear fruit twice in one year?
I give way to make room for some better man.
But be thou gracious to me, and let death be mine with these feelings in my heart, for strength to be faithful might not long be vouchsafed me.
"Thou shalt die to-morrow!"
How sure a father-confessor is that word!
Now for the first time I speak truth to myself.
_Ivar_ [_climbing' over a rock_]--Yes, here he is.
[_Gives his hand to the nun.
_] _The Nun_ [_without seeing_]--Sigurd!
[_Mounts up.
_] Yes, there he is!
_Sigurd_--Mother!
_The Nun_--My child, found once more!
[_They remain long clasped in each other's arms.
_] My son, my son, now shalt thou no more escape me!
_Sigurd_--O my mother!
_The Nun_--Thou wilt keep away from this battle, is it not so?
We two will win another kingdom,--a much better one.
_Sigurd_--I understand thee, mother.
[_Leads her to a seat, and falls upon his knee.
_] _The Nun_--Yes, dost thou not?
Thou art not so bad as all men would have it.
I knew that well, but wanted so much to speak with thee,--and since thou art wearied and hast lost thy hopes for this world, thou hast come back to me, for even now there is time!
And of all thy realm they must leave thee some little plot, and there we will live by the church, so that when the bells ring for vespers we shall be near the blessed Olaf, and with him seek the presence of the Almighty.
And there we will heal thy wounds with holy water, and thoughts of love, more than thou canst remember ever to have had, shall come back to thee robed in white, and wondering recollection shall have no end.
For the great shall be made small and the small great, and there shall be questionings and revelations and eternal happiness.
Thou wilt come and thus live with me, my son, wilt thou not?
Thou wilt stay from this battle and come quickly?
_Sigurd_--Mother, I have not wept till now since I lay upon the parched earth of the Holy Land.
_The Nun_--Thou wilt follow me?
_Sigurd_--To do thus were to escape the pledges I have made but by breaking them.
_The Nun_--To what art thou now pledged?
_Sigurd_--Pledged to the blind king I took from the cloister; pledged to the men I have led hither.
_The Nun_--And these pledges thou shalt redeem--how?
_Sigurd_--By fighting and falling at their head.
_The Nun [springs to her feet.
Sigurd also rises_.
]--No!
No!
No!
Shall I now, after a lifetime of sorrow, behold thy death?
_Sigurd_--Yes, mother.
The Lord of life and death will have it so.
_The Nun_--Ah!
what sufferings a moment's sin may bring!
[_She falls upon his breast, then sinks, with outstretched arms_.
] O my son, spare me!
_Sigurd_--Do not tempt me, mother!
_The Nun_--Hast thou taken thought of what may follow?
Hast thou thought of capture, of mutilation?
_Sigurd_--I have some hymns left me from childhood.
I can sing them.
_The Nun_--But I--thy mother--spare me!
_Sigurd_--Make not to me this hour more bitter than death itself.
_The Nun_--But why now die?
We have found one another.
_Sigurd_--We two have nothing more to live for.
_The Nun_--Wilt thou soon leave me?
_Sigurd_--Till the morning sun appear we will sit together.
Let me lift thee upon this rock.
[_He does so, and casts himself at her feet_.
] It was fair that thou shouldst come to me.
All my life is now blotted out, and I am a child with thee once more.
And now we will seek out together the land of our inheritance.
I must away for a moment to take my leave, and then I shall be ready, and I think that thou too art ready.
_Ivar Ingemundson [falling on his knee_]--My lord, now let me be your friend.
_Sigurd [extending his hand_]--Ivar, thou wilt not leave her to-morrow?
_Ivar Ingemundson_--Not until she is set free.
_Sigurd_--And now sing me the Crusader's song.
I may joyfully go hence after that.
Ivar Ingemundson [_rises and sings_]-- Fair is the earth, Fair is God's heaven;
Fair is the pilgrim-path of the soul.
Singing we go Through the fair realms of earth, Seeking the way to our heavenly goal.
Races shall come, And shall pass away: And the world from age to age shall roll;
But the heavenly tones Of our pilgrim song Shall echo still in the joyous soul.
First heard of shepherds, By angels sung, Wide it has spread since that glad morn: Peace upon earth!
Rejoice all men, For unto us is a Savior born[1].
[_The mother places both her hands on Sigurd's head, and they look into one another's eyes; he then rests his head upon her breast.
_] [Footnote 1: This song is borrowed by Björnson from the Danish poet B. S.
Ingemann, although it is slightly altered for its present use.
] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Boston.
* * * * * HOW THE MOUNTAIN WAS CLAD
From 'Arne' There was a deep gorge between two mountains.
Through this gorge a large, full stream flowed heavily over a rough and stony bottom.
Both sides were high and steep, and so one side was bare; but close to its foot, and so near the stream that the latter sprinkled it with moisture every spring and autumn, stood a group of fresh-looking trees, gazing upward and onward, yet unable to advance this way or that.
"What if we should clothe the mountain?"
said the juniper one day to the foreign oak, to which it stood nearer than all the others.
The oak looked down to find out who it was that spoke, and then it looked up again without deigning a reply.
The river rushed along so violently that it worked itself into a white foam; the north wind had forced its way through the gorge and shrieked in the clefts of the rocks; the naked mountain, with its great weight, hung heavily over and felt cold.
"What if we should clothe the mountain?"
said the juniper to the fir on the other side.
"If anybody is to do it, I suppose it must be we," said the fir, taking hold of its beard and glancing toward the birch.
"What do you think?"
But the birch peered cautiously up, at the mountain, which hung over it so threateningly that it seemed as if it could scarcely breathe.
"Let us clothe it, in God's name!"
said the birch.
And so, though there were but these three, they undertook to clothe the mountain.
The juniper went first.
When they had gone a little way, they met the heather.
The juniper seemed as though about to go past it.
"Nay, take the heather along," said the fir.
And the heather joined them.
Soon it began to glide on before the juniper.
"Catch hold of me," said the heather.
The juniper did so, and where there was only a wee crevice, the heather thrust in a finger, and where it first had placed a finger, the juniper took hold with its whole hand.
They crawled and crept along, the fir laboring on behind, the birch also.
"This is well worth doing," said the birch.
But the mountain began to ponder on what manner of insignificant objects these might be that were clambering up over it.
And after it had been considering the matter a few hundred years, it sent a little brook down to inquire.
It was yet in the time of the spring freshets, and the brook stole on until it reached the heather.
"Dear, dear heather, cannot you let me pass?
I am so small."
The heather was very busy; only raised itself a little and pressed onward.
In, under, and onward went the brook.
"Dear, dear juniper, cannot you let me pass?
I am so small."
The juniper looked sharply at it; but if the heather had let it pass, why, in all reason, it must do so too.
Under it and onward went the brook;
and now came to the spot where the fir stood puffing on the hill-side.
"Dear, dear fir, cannot you let me pass?
I am really so small," said the brook,--and it kissed the fir's feet and made itself so very sweet.
The fir became bashful at this, and let it pass.
But the birch raised itself before the brook asked it.
"Hi, hi, hi!"
said the brook, and grew.
"Ha, ha, ha!"
said the brook, and grew.
"Ho, ho, ho!"
said the brook, and flung the heather and the juniper and the fir and the birch flat on their faces and backs, up and down these great hills.
The mountain sat up for many hundred years musing on whether it had not smiled a little that day.
It was plain enough: the mountain did not want to be clad.
The heather fretted over this until it grew green again, and then it started forward.
"Fresh courage!"
said the heather.
The juniper had half raised itself to look at the heather, and continued to keep this position, until at length it stood upright.
It scratched its head and set forth again, taking such a vigorous foothold that it seemed as though the mountain must feel it.
"If you will not have me, then I will have you."
The fir crooked its toes a little to find out whether they were whole, then lifted one foot, found it whole, then the other, which proved also to be whole, then both of them.
It first investigated the ground it had been over, next where it had been lying, and finally where it should go.
After this it began to wend its way slowly along, and acted just as though it had never fallen.
The birch had become most wretchedly soiled, but now rose up and made itself tidy.
Then they sped onward, faster and faster, upward and on either side, in sunshine and in rain.
"What in the world can this be?"
said the mountain, all glittering with dew, as the summer sun shone down on it.
The birds sang, the wood-mouse piped, the hare hopped along, and the ermine hid itself and screamed.
Then the day came when the heather could peep with one eye over the edge of the mountain.
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!"
said the heather, and away it went.
"Dear me!
what is it the heather sees?"
said the juniper, and moved on until it could peer up.
"Oh dear, oh dear!"
it shrieked, and was gone.
"What is the matter with the juniper to-day?"
said the fir, and took long strides onward in the heat of the sun.
Soon it could raise itself on its toes and peep up.
"Oh dear!"
Branches and needles stood on end in wonderment.
It worked its way forward, came up, and was gone.
"What is it all the others see, and not I?"
said the birch; and lifting well its skirts, it tripped after.
It stretched its whole head up at once.
"Oh,--oh!
--is not here a great forest of fir and heather, of juniper and birch, standing upon the table-land waiting for us?"
said the birch; and its leaves quivered in the sunshine so that the dew trembled.
"Ay, this is what it is to reach the goal!"
said the juniper.
THE FATHER
The man whose story is here to be told was the wealthiest and most influential person in his parish; his name was Thord Overaas.
He appeared in the priest's study one day, tall and earnest.
"I have gotten a son," said he, "and I wish to present him for baptism."
"What shall his name be?"
"Finn,--after my father."
"And the sponsors?"
They were mentioned, and proved to be the best men and women of Thord's relations in the parish.
"Is there anything else?"
inquired the priest, and looked up.
The peasant hesitated a little.
"I should like very much to have him baptized by himself," said he, finally.
"That is to say, on a week-day?"
"Next Saturday, at twelve o'clock noon."
"Is there anything else?"
inquired the priest.
"There is nothing else;" and the peasant twirled his cap, as though he were about to go.
Then the priest rose.
"There is yet this, however," said he, and walking toward Thord, he took him by the hand and looked gravely into his eyes: "God grant that the child may become a blessing to you!"
One day sixteen years later, Thord stood once more in the priest's study.
"Really, you carry your age astonishingly well, Thord," said the priest;
for he saw no change whatever in the man.
"That is because I have no troubles," replied Thord.
To this the priest said nothing, but after a while he asked, "What is your pleasure this evening?"
"I have come this evening about that son of mine who is to be confirmed to-morrow."
"He is a bright boy."
"I did not wish to pay the priest until I heard what number the boy would have when he takes his place in church to-morrow."
"He will stand Number One."
"So I have heard; and here are ten dollars for the priest."
"Is there anything else I can do for you?"
inquired the priest, fixing his eyes on Thord.
"There is nothing else."
Thord went out.
Eight years more rolled by, and then one day a noise was heard outside of the priest's study, for many men were approaching, and at their head was Thord, who entered first.
The priest looked up and recognized him.
"You come well attended this evening, Thord," said he.
"I am here to request that the banns may be published for my son: he is about to marry Karen Storliden, daughter of Gudmund, who stands here beside me."
"Why, that is the richest girl in the parish."
"So they say," replied the peasant, stroking back his hair with one hand.
The priest sat awhile as if in deep thought, then entered the names in his book, without making any comments, and the men wrote their signatures underneath.
Thord laid three dollars on the table.
"One is all I am to have," said the priest.
"I know that very well, but he is my only child; I want to do it handsomely."
The priest took the money.
"This is now the third time, Thord, that you have come here on your son's account."
"But now I am through with him," said Thord, and folding up his pocket-book he said farewell and walked away.
The men slowly followed him.
